


The Crimson Tower

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Implications of child abuse, basically just wanted to be mean to sylvain and explore the darker parts of his personality, canon adjacent, dark atmosphere, horror tone, implications of abuse, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: When they go to Conrad Tower, they find it empty. Or . . . at least they think it's empty.Sylvain might just wish that it was.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	The Crimson Tower

The bulk of Sylvain's armor should have kept him warm—no, it should have been suffocating with the arduous ascent into Conrad Tower. Even the slightest breeze should have been welcome. And still he couldn't stop shuddering.

He paused mid-step, the sound of his breath and the thrum of his heart overwhelming. There should have been more men here. There should have been the thump of footsteps rapidly approaching, emphasized by the brush of fabric bearing Miklan's insignia. Their shouts should have have echoed off the stone, rivaled only by the clash of steel and iron.

But there was only silence.

True, they'd come to reclaim the Lance of Ruin, which—in theory—shouldn't have been difficult. But this was easy in a way that invited the concern that kept gnawing in the back of Sylvain's mind.

At first, it had seemed normal. There were bandits outside Conrad Tower when they arrived. When those men were felled and no others came from the Tower's interior, it was the students' duty to claw out the rats in hiding.

But the first floor was empty. And the second. Even the third. Irritation bubbled beneath his aloof smile, bewildered by this absurdity. This mystery taunted him with every step.

He knew Miklan was foolish, but not stupid. He was, after all, a Gautier. Battle tactics were part of their upbringing. He would know the value of wearing down enemies, knowing the risk of charging them all at once. Logically, his strongest men would be at the top, but there was always the fodder.

And those men didn't just disappear.

He ran his hand through his hair before he continued down the dimly-lit hall. The smoke of snuffed candles lingered still, riding the constant smell of moist stone and mildew. Liquid dripped down from somewhere. In the distance, fabric brushed against itself in the slight breeze. The metal of his boots scraped against the stone.

His steps slowed as the scuffing muffled, replaced by the sloshing of liquid. A small thump echoed through the hall as his foot hit something solid. With a slight tilt of his head, he nudged his toe against the thing in his path.The slumped figure hunched more, nearly collapsing on itself.

Perhaps, at one time, it had been a formidable warrior. His remaining arm was rather broad.His armor of a decent quality (probably once remarkable). Beside him was a rather impressive blade—broad and sharp and shimmering.

Now the armor was stained crimson, the insignia on it barely visible past the crusted blood. A deep gash tore through the torso, dividing the man nearly in half. No weapon could have caused this, not like this. In the blade's reflection, empty eyes stared back at Sylvain.

Sylvain prodded the body with the butt of his lance. The torso fell from the base, the thin strip of leather snapping and abandoning the vain effort of keeping the body intact. A lot of good that armor had done him. Shaking his head, Sylvain let his feet continue to take him down the hall.

Unlike the first floors, the last couple he traversed were a bloodbath. At first, the corpses had seemed the outcome of a normal battle. It was easy to assume that other bandits had come in, had overwhelmed Miklan's men and had taken what they wanted. That the men at the door were frauds to deter intervention.

The seeming simplicity encouraged the Professor to divide them up: some to stay and decipher what happened, and some to explore further. Sylvain was among the latter. It was Sylvain's idea to split up and cover more ground. After all, when the advance group only found floors full of dead and decaying bodies, it seemed unlikely that the perpetrator was still around.

Or at least, he _had_ thought that. He wasn't so foolish as to ignore that the deaths were more gruesome with each floor he ascended. It wouldn't surprise him if, on a higher floor, he'd find only pieces.

Realistically, he should have gone back. Reported to the Professor that something worse was at play here.

But Sylvain wasn't going to stop—wouldn't entertain the thought. Not when, with each minute, his annoyance only grew. There should have been _someone_ here. A man still clinging to the barest thread of life. Or one cowering. Or one preparing to fight and die. Or perhaps the one who had done all of this.

Someone he could pierce with his lance, just for the satisfaction of watching the life drain from their eyes.

Sylvain winced, the twitch so forceful that it made his neck ache. Since when had _he_ ever looked for a fight? For a body to blame and watch bleed, merely to ease the rage boiling in his veins?

Since when had he become his brother?

He shook his head; he had to focus. After all, he still had a job to do.

Sylvain's gaze slid up to the nearby stairway. He could deal with these thoughts later. It was probably just the place, or the environment, or the situation. He just had to get to the top, confirm his brother was either missing or dead (preferably the latter), and return to the others. They'd go to the Academy and everything would be normal again.

Idly, his fingers brushed along the stone as he ascended the stairs.He tried to focus on the uneven divots beneath his gloves. The was stone rough in a way that pulled at the fabric.It was reliable, normal in its inconsistency.

He paused as his gloves found a strange texture, moisture seeping into the fabric. He glanced up; the ceiling was still intact. The stone should have been damp, at _worst_.

Sylvain glanced down. Dark liquid oozed off his fingertips, nauseatingly viscous. Blood shimmered crimson in the dim light, but this wasn't just blood. It was. . . something else.

A rumbling from above drew his attention. Not thunder—it was too close, too deep. It was like the sound of something pulled from the depths of hell. It reverberated in his bones, making his teeth chatter. His feet froze in place. Body icy like standing knee-deep in snow, snow whipping through trees, frost stiffening hair and eyelashes.

Sylvain forced a step, slow and careful. He willed each footstep quiet, prayed that his movements were cautious enough that his armor would slide against itself soundlessly.

He should go back. He should report that _something_ was still here.

But that something could be used to quell that simmering anger. That could bring his mind to ease, make everything go back to normal. Make him Sylvain again—useless, lazy, worthless Sylvain—before they went to find his brother and the Lance once more.

At the top of the stairs, the hall narrowed, singular in its direction. It appeared to curl up on itself as it lead to the top of the tower. The ceiling was higher here, meant to accompany the top in full. The rain was harder now, Miklan's banners whipping in the wind. Water seeped down through the holes in the stone.

He stood there, letting the rain fall onto his hair, his face. Waiting for the sound of thunder once again. And yet . . . nothing.

Had it been a figment of his imagination? Or, perhaps, a reminder of his carelessness? Maybe, just maybe, it was a reminder of what he was. What he _really_ was, beneath the charm and smiles and carefully curated foolishness.

He continued on, counting the corpses like they were portraits decorating a noble's chamber. Three directly in his view as he walked, another one crumpled pitifully behind a crushed chest of goods. Two more buried under a collapsed stone doorway. Blood splattered high against the walls, oozing slowly down with the growing storm.

The next corner was hard for even Sylvain to stomach. Five, no, maybe ten bodies piled high. It was too hard to count, the pile more pieces than corpses. Armor was crumpled and crushed, tomes burned to a useless state. Swords and axes lay decimated beyond repair. It reeked so strongly of ash and blood that he could nearly taste it on his tongue.

Sylvain looked away.

_Weak_

He winced, self-loathing echoing in his head like a cruel mimicry of his brother. Too much like his father's and not nearly enough. He could see them glaring down at him, eyes practically glowing with loathing. Hating everything that was _Sylvain_.

_Worthless_

He bit down on his tongue till the taste of copper was no longer imaginary. Without his Crest, he was nothing. He wasn't strong enough, or smart enough, or skilled enough. It didn't matter what he did; he would always be worthless. Always be that little kid that never earned what the Goddess had given him.

_A waste_

The blood within him was supposed to make him the best among the best, the epitome of his legacy. A descendant of heroes, the best of mankind had to offer. But, in his father's own words, he wasn't even worthy of licking the dirt beneath their feet.

_**Hate** _

Sylvain twitched, head whipping around, lance ready. But he wasn't fast enough. A monster sprung upon him. Digits the size of his arm pinned him to the ground, the massive paw pressing against his torso. A claw pierced into his shoulder, stabbing too easily through his armor and deep into the flesh. He gasped; his armor creaking as he struggled.

Another claw pressed into his arm, slow and persistent as it penetrated the skin. Sylvain cried out, his lance falling from his hand. He tried to contain himself, but couldn't contain the heaving breaths that tore through his lungs, or the pathetic whimpers that managed to escape his throat.

_Sylvain_

Hot air blustered against his face with such force that it made him wince.

_Sylvain_

His name rolled on a growl, vibrating through Sylvain's ribs as that immense maw inched closer to his face. Gore dripped off long fangs, splattering onto Sylvain's face.

Well, at least he knew who to blame for the state of the Tower.

_I will enjoy this_

He could recognize the hatred in those glowing eyes. No one could despise Sylvain so strongly, regardless of form. "Miklan."

Sylvain could barely acknowledge the sharp agony of claws slicing into his skin before that massive palm pressed against his chest. The metal of his breastplate creaked, crunching against him like a prison. Pressing until there was nothing between his skin and the armor.

"S-stop," Sylvain gasped.

He couldn't fill his lungs, couldn't get a breath. Every exhale condemned him more. Saliva and blood threatened to drown him as a fang brushed against his cheek. The frigid rain made him shudder and shake against the heat of that rancid breath. His vision began to blur.

_Beg_

Sylvain blinked. He had begged, back then. He had begged the man who towered above him, his fingers digging into fabric, grasping for any hope of salvation. He had begged as fingers wrapped around his throat, holding him just high enough that his feet couldn't find purchase on old stone. He had begged for just a breath of air as water filled his lungs.

He was not going to beg again.

Lip curled, Sylvain raised his hand, fingers pressing against he rough leather of Miklan's skin. Magic radiated from his fingertips, light spears raining down from above. It stabbed through Miklan's shoulder, torso, face, throat. Miklan roared, rearing back.

Sylvain took hold of his lance and struck.

  
  


When the others arrived, they found the Lance of Ruin, thrumming with resonant energy. They found the body of a beast, rapidly decaying. And they found Sylvain, covered in blood, gaze dark and cold as he stared at his family's legacy. At the Lance that always made its wielder a monster.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As always, come bother me on Twitter [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming).


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